Tidal Wave
by samchandler1986
Summary: This time, it really is their last hurrah.
1. Chapter 1

There is an unbelievable amount of blood considering how small she is. _Was._ His shirt is wet with it. He stands blankly at the TARDIS console, a man in a waking nightmare. So much blood.

And so much more to come. He knows in his bones. When the numb horror recedes and is replaced by wrath he will burn their world. Oh, there's many who'll say they deserve it. Across the Universe they'll rejoice to hear it – a bellicose and belligerent species finally getting a taste of their own medicine. "They were evil," they'll say. "They got what was coming to them."

He might even believe it for a while. But in the pit of the night he'll _know._ It won't be because of their hate, their xenophobia. Even their genocide.

It will be because they took Clara Oswald from him. One human life, worth more to him than any planet in the sky.

He pushes buttons and the TARDIS wheezes and groans, carrying him away from that broken little body. But not to where he's asked her to go. No, she does as she always will, and takes him to where he _needs_ to be.

He pushes open the doors to find himself not at the heart of their empire, but in her flat. She is sitting on her sofa, legs folded under herself and a glass of wine in hand. A stack of exercise books on the side table before her.

"Doctor?" she says, confused.

She made such an effort, he realises. This version of Clara seems strange in casual jumper and jeans; without her make-up, hair escaping from its tie. Smaller and younger and more vulnerable. _This is what you took, old man. This is what you ruined._

"Doctor! You're hurt, you're bleeding!" She is on her feet now, crossing to him.

"No," he rasps, "No, I'm not." He stares at her in muzzy incomprehension as she touches a hand to his shirt, slick with her blood.

"Doctor, what happened?"

He should get back in the TARDIS right now. Turn away and leave. Go back; stick to his original plan of burning to the ground an entire civilisation. He cannot tell her. Every law of Gallifrey, of causality, of time itself is at stake. He opens his mouth to say goodbye.

A howl emerges instead. It is not a sound he has any control over but something raw and desperate; a monstrous grief that bypasses any need for words. He falls to his knees, sobs boiling from his chest, incapacitated with anguish.

"Oh," she says.

* * *

There is a horrible surrealism to her washing her own lifeblood away; draining bathwater turned pinkish with a look of distaste. He lets her pilot him about, passing him clean clothes from the TARDIS, a hot mug of tea. The Doctor is gone; he's not sure who _this_ creature is, looking out through his eyes right now; occupying the space of his body. Just a passing consciousness, perhaps, dully cataloguing what's occurring. Not feeling. Not thinking.

"Is it soon?" she says quietly, watching his face.

His eyes flicker to the calendar on her wall. Mere days. "Yes."

She lets out a shaky breath. "Good. I wouldn't want to have ages dwelling on it."

He shakes his head. "I must have wiped your memory."

"Don't even _think_ about trying that," she warns, frowning for the first time.

"You don't understand," he snaps. "You came with me. Willingly."

She raises her eyebrows. "And you think I didn't know?"

He nods.

She is quiet for a time, tapping her fingers against her mug as she deliberates. "Was it quick?"

Tears prick his eyes. He closes them tightly; swallows hard. "Yes."

"Were you with me?"

He nods again. _You died in my arms_.

She shakes her head, expression clearing. "Then you didn't wipe my memory. I went knowing." Shrugs in the face of his hard look. "It's how I want to go, Doctor."

A sick, sinking feeling in his stomach cuts through the layers of numbness. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not," she replies quietly. "Doctor, I've known for a long time how this was going to end-"

He stands up so violently his empty mug goes flying across the room. "No," he growls. "I should have… I should have stopped you."

"Ha, good luck," she scoffs.

"No! You're not… Clara, _listen_ to yourself."

She retrieves his mug from where it has landed, saved from smashing by her thick carpet. "Don't you judge me for feeling this way, Doctor. You don't have the right."

His knees are weak from the thought of it; he sits back down heavily, putting a hand over his eyes. "Clara," he weeps, "look at what I did to you."

"Do you ever _listen_ to yourself?" she snaps back. "You didn't do anything to me. _I_ made myself. Who I am now is down to me."

"No," he says again. "If it wasn't for me you'd have died on Earth. Lived a _life_."

"No! I _wouldn't_. If it wasn't for you I'd have lived in the shadow of guilt and grief and died without living at all, full of regret for all the places I never saw. Doctor, you gave me the Universe. I didn't _have_ to take it; I wanted to. Look at me. I've seen stars born and die. There are whole _planets_ in the sky out there that owe their existence to _me_. I've changed history, I've made it _better_. Don't you dare try to take that away from me." She sighs heavily and sits back down next to him, taking his hand in hers. "Some things," she says, more softly, "are worth dying for."

"I don't know what to do," he says to his knees, unable to bear her stare for very long. "I am… afraid."

"Of the people that kill me?"

He shakes his head.

"Oh. Well, that's why the TARDIS bought you here I suppose. Stop you from doing something… stupid."

"You're going to _die_ , Clara. How can you be so…? "

"Calm about it?" Another shrug. "We're all dying Doctor." She catches his expression of disbelief. "Okay… lots of people find out they're dying every day. My Mum did. We knew for months. What was growing inside her, what it would say on her death certificate… Knowing means… means you can live _more_ sometimes. Do the things you were always too scared to. Say the things you need to. You know?"

Another shake of his head; this time it elicits a chuckle.

"Of course you don't. I don't think there's a thought enters your head these days that doesn't come out of your mouth. You'll have to keep using those cards I made you…" Silence fills the room for a while, as she considers the dregs of her mug. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know."

"You shouldn't be alone."

"I know."

"What about Vastra?" she suggests. "Jenny and Strax. They kept you in line before."

"Until you," he says simply. He cannot be haunted doubly in this grief.

She bites her lip. "I hate to say it, but Missy?"

"No." Not when he's _this_ close to wiping out a species as it is. There's no telling what they might do together.

"Hmm." She leans back against her sofa, studying the strange swirling patterns that adorn her ceiling. "Stay with me for a while then."

"There isn't-"

"Yes, there is," she cuts him off. "Let's go in the TARDIS, right now. If I'm dying, there's a few places I want to see first. Things I want to do. Let's do it properly this time – a real last hurrah."

He meets her shining eyes and sees for the first time a spark of fear within. For all her brave words she is not ready to go, not yet, and he hasn't got the strength to make her.

"Okay," he says, ignoring the parts of his brain that suggest a hundred thousand reasons why this is a terribly bad idea. "Okay, let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

_How should one die? In meditation. With repentance and acceptance, and in contemplation of the absolute._

Clara agrees with these sentiments about as much as he does, which is why their first port of call is the planet where long-necked aliens have been celebrating New Year for several centuries. They don't manage to locate her sunglasses, lost on their previous visit, but they do find various effective intoxicants. She goes dancing while he loses several hands of Ton'ga to a particularly Giraffatitan gambler.

She finds him again at dawn, leaving the sprawling entertainment sector to walk along the surprisingly immaculate beach. A clean-up crew are dealing with a vomiting celebrant with weary efficiency. Even on a planet dedicated to hedonism there are those with responsibilities, she observes.

"Everything has its price."

"No," she says, "Don't do that. You can't get all maudlin. We're having a party. I want my three weeks at least." She hiccoughs.

There is nothing he can find in reply to this, allowing her to take his hand instead, and lead him to a disproportionate bench. The sky is already pinking as she rests her head against his shoulder companionably and awaits the rising sun.

"I do love a sunrise. What's the best dawn the Universe has to offer? We should go there next."

"Jalancia is supposed to be pretty good," he answers. "They have seven orbital moons that shine silver during a binary star sunrise."

"Are you okay?" she whispers, after a while.

He keeps his eyes on the beautiful sunrise. "No," he says, "No, I'm not."

"Me neither." She sighs. "But I'm glad I'm here with you."

* * *

They go and see the seven moon sunrise. They watch the birth of Earth's star; have sandwiches on the shores of her primordial seas (he wonders if her crumbs might actually have been the catalyst for life on the planet). They see the dinosaurs (without encountering a hostile Tyrannosaur this time) and then shoot forward to watch the rise of humankind. They mediate a conflict between Neanderthals and Anatomically Modern Humans (the textbooks of her time change from a story of isolated populations to one of intermarriage).

She is beyond exhausted, he can tell; more than twenty-four hours since she last slept. He can feel her body's need for it, but she's fighting. "Where to now?" she says, as he closes the door of the TARDIS behind them.

"Bed," he suggests.

"I don't want to sleep," she smiles, brushing off his order as a suggestion. "What about-?"

"Clara," he tries again, "You need to sleep. I won't… I promise, we can start again after you rest."

She sighs. "It feels like such a waste. Of time, I mean, now that it's… short."

Helpless, he shrugs. "I'm sorry. Humans need sleep."

"Can't you… do to me what you do? Telepath me or something?"

He shakes his head. "It doesn't work that way."

"I suppose not. Okay. But, the _second_ I wake up I want to go and see the space station you were telling me about."

"I promise."

The TARDIS spins through the Vortex while she readies herself for bed. He dares not land for fear of crossing their timelines, for wasting any of the fleeting hours she has left. Time in the Vortex is time unspent. Perhaps they can stay here forever; maybe he can run out all the days of her life that she should have lived, as long as they avoid Earth.

But he knows he can't; that he doesn't; because the face she wears when she dies is the one she has now. No snow in her hair, no lines on her face to match the ones on his.

Sleeping _is_ a waste, he thinks, when she has so little time left.

He fills the hours with small tasks he's been ignoring; repair jobs on the TARDIS; an upgrade to the sonic. Until the console beeps quietly to let him know: she is awake. And she is crying.

He dithers, not sure what to do with this information. He's not good with crying. But she held his hand while _he_ wept, he supposes, put aside her fears for him. He must do the same in return.

He knocks on the door of her room, feeling very odd to do so. There is not normally _any_ part of the TARDIS he cannot enter on a whim.

"You can come in," she says, voice thick.

"Clara," he manages, as she turns on her beside lamp and wipes her eyes.

"It doesn't matter," she continues, "Just a wobble. Let's-"

"Clara." He sits next to her on the bed and holds out his arms stiffly. She embraces him in spite of his awkwardness, holding on to him tightly.

"Bad dreams," she manages, somewhere in his chest.

"I know. Come on. Let's get going. We've a space station to see."

* * *

They prowl the promenade on the Deep Space outpost (alien coffee makes him sick, much to her amusement). Afterwards the ride the rollercoaster time-winds of a nearby wormhole, and save a mining crew from an aggressive alien they've picked up exploring uncharted planets on the other side (he doesn't understand why Clara nicknames their captain Ripley). He risks letting the TARDIS choose their next destination (she's the one who started this last hurrah after all). She drops them on the Big Sur coastline of California, sometime in the late 1950s.

He sends Clara into a nearby diner for food, not sure she'd particularly approve of his plan to acquire a shiny Chevrolet Corvette that is parked on the forecourt of the town's dealership by means of psychic paper. It's a red convertible model, with a souped-up fuel injector engine and beautifully circular headlights that remind him of the TARDIS's roundels.

He finds her sipping a milkshake inside, taking in the Americana atmosphere with a smile that breaks his hearts. "Are you ready?"

"Let's go, daddy-o," she replies, slipping on her sunglasses. She follows him to the car dealership. "What's the plan?"

"Get in," he says, indicating the car with a nod of his head.

"Doctor, we can't just steal-"

"We're not. I've paid." Technically not a lie, and anyway, he plans to return the motor.

"Hmmm," she says, clearly suspicious, but also itching to begin their next adventure. "You're certain you know how to drive this thing?"

"Isn't that what makes it more exciting?" he returns, all shark's-grin smile.

* * *

He forgets, on the recklessly fast drive along the Pacific Coast Highway, the ticking clock that underscores their moments together now. She stands up in her seat, wind in her hair, arms outstretched as if she is flying. They leave the car near the beach and run down to the surf; she sheds some of her clothes as he plugs in his electric guitar. A nymph of a more ancient time, dancing in the waves while he plays Johnny B. Goode with a James Dean sneer.

Working his way through a catalogue of 1950s rock and roll, his fingers eventually find a familiar riff on the E string as he watches her. She turns with a smile. "I'm pretty sure that's not been written yet."

"Well, we're closer than twelfth century Essex," he returns.

He leaves her dozing on the warm sand for a while, collecting firewood and constructing a shelter from with all the usual engineering precision he reserves for TARDIS repair. She wakes to the smell of his barbecue efforts.

"Where'd you get all this food?" she asks. "And beer?"

"TARDIS picnic. Bigger on the inside."

"Ha!"

The temperature drops swiftly with the sunset; she re-dresses and adds a layer of blanket, huddling closer to the fire as the stars come out.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

"We can-"

"I don't want to go."

He considers their options for a moment. "Come here."

She shuffles over obliging, allowing him to re-wrap them both in her blanket, sharing body heat. "I want to see the stars," she explains. "Are any of them ones we've visited?"

"Oh yes." He points. "Can you see that big one?"

"Yes."

"That's not a star, that's Venus."

"Oh."

"But it's going to pass close to the constellation you call Cancer, look. And just on from that Gemini. _That's_ Beta-Gem; Pollux. Remember the Kusonians? They lived on the extrasolar planet in orbit there."

"Is that the planet where you almost got sacrificed to their fertility god?"

"The one with all the arms and legs?"

"Yes! You said it looked like an angry millipede and they got really angry."

He finds he is chuckling himself at the memory. "You know, I'd forgotten that part…"

They continue reminiscing, guided by the star map, until they are both howling with laughter. She is suffering from that strange human malfunction, where the lacrimal ducts get involved in mirth rather than misery. Unthinking, he moves to brush away the stray tear on her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. The touch of his hand stills her movement; he finds he is suddenly intensely aware of how close she is under the blanket.

"It's been a very good day," she whispers.

"And an even better one tomorrow," he promises, stomach turned to lead again as he suddenly remembers why they are here.

"Mm-hm," she nods. She brings her hand up to his face now, mirroring the gesture. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He can feel his hearts beating, so strong in his chest it's a wonder she can't feel it. He thinks she might be about to kiss him; isn't at all sure how he will react to the brush of her lips against his. She remains still, however, as in control of herself as ever. Endlessly patient with him.

 _He kissed her forehead as he cradled her, dying. A tear soaked goodbye he's not sure she lived long enough to witness._ The memory of it catches in his throat. Does he not deserve a counterpoint to that moment of awful loss?

His lips brush hers; a gentle question. She responds equally soft, both of them waiting the other's cold feet that never come. Taste of salt and flash of heat; her body now pressed against him as he deepens the kiss. The knot in his stomach seems to pull loose, replaced by an increasingly pressing need to remove the layers of fabric separating her from him. She has the same idea, tugging at his trousers as he unbuttons her dress; fumble-fingered and shaking. His mouth finds her neck, traces the line of her collarbone, before she takes control of the situation, guiding him precisely where she needs.

* * *

Afterwards, she sleeps in his arms, lulled by the sound of the surf. In his mind's ear he hears the beating of waves of a different sort, on the shores of time. They are growing stronger.


	3. Chapter 3

He really did intend to return the Corvette, he tells himself.

Instead they are heading east, towards the dawning sky. Clara dozes in the passenger seat as he drives, away from the threat of the whispering sea; away from the sonorous clap of the TARDIS cloister bell. Running, like he always has.

She opens her eyes somewhere outside the Sequoia National Park; stretches in her seat. At the gateway of a mighty forest, early morning mist haunts the trunks of pine and fir. She narrows her eyes as they zip past, suspicious. "Did you do something to the engine?"

The tachometer needle is buried at one-sixty. He suspects they are closer to two hundred as a result of his meddling. "I can handle it," he says confidently.

"Don't hurt anyone else," she says, softly.

Their future is fixed, he wants to say. Timelines running parallel, away from those of the earthbound. It's not a question of piloting skills, it's a matter of temporal physics. They won't have an accident. That much he can _feel_. He takes his foot off the accelerator anyway, bringing them back down to something approaching the actual speed limit. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving. I wouldn't say no to a shower, either."

He pulls up at one of the tourist motels, flashing the psychic paper to gain them a clean but chintzy room. The mismatched patterns of the faded carpet and curtains are an assault on the eye. He finds it depressing; Clara thinks it's quaint.

"Need to get the salt off," she says, running her fingers through stiff hair. "Do we have to pay for hot water?"

The sonic buzzes in response. "Not anymore."

She grins at that. "Come on, then."

He stares at her outstretched hand, nonplussed. She raises an eyebrow and the penny drops, stomach lurching.

"No," he stutters, "It wouldn't-"

"Wouldn't _what_? Or was last night a one off?" she asks brightly, although he can see fear lurking in her smile, as she waits his response.

 _Yes_ , he should say. Something that absolutely, categorically _should not have happened_. Something that can never happen again.

"No," he growls, taking her hand.

* * *

They eat runny eggs with bacon eventually, a very late breakfast. Head north to see the giant sequoias –a mighty tree that is older even than he is. He presses his ear to the bark, to hear any wisdom it has to offer on enduring millennia while the forest grows, dies; changes all around. It has no answer he can fathom, stretching silently to the sun. By evening they are curled around one another in the motel room again, as he commits to memory every inch of her. What's the point of fighting the tide anymore?

They carry on east, taking the Corvette across the salt flats of Death Valley, marvelling at an artist's palette of coloured sands and wind scored rock. "I thought it would be bleak," she says, "but it's beautiful."

"The Universe is full of surprises."

Vegas by nightfall, a room at the Sands. He takes her to hear Sinatra swing. "This last song's for Clara O," announces old blue eyes during the encore (because he owes the Doctor a favour, even if it was to a different face). "At the request of our mutual friend."

He launches into _Fly Me to the Moon_ and she almost manages to hide her tears.

"So, is that out next destination?" she asks, when she has regained her composure.

"Why not?" he replies, as they dance together, in a borrowed white gown and out-of-style tuxedo. "We never did go for those cocktails."

He summons the TARDIS to them the following morning; she materialises somewhat reluctantly. Cross with him, he suspects, for leaving her halfway across the country. She flat our refuses to accommodate the Corvette – with regret he leaves it with Frank – and on they run.

* * *

The see wonders. They save civilisations from oppression and tyranny by accident, because it's what they do. They make love on an alien mountain top that dwarves Everest; under the streaming green fire of the northern lights; on one notable occasion in the roof of the Sydney Opera House. The Universe does not end, but he can feel the pressure building; knows catastrophe must come.

* * *

"It's almost time, isn't it?" she says softly, at last. His head is resting against her bare shoulder, her hand stroking through his hair, unthinking.

"Yes," he says softly. They've had two months of stolen time. Two centuries would still not be enough. He'll have to delete this bedroom, he thinks. Won't bear looking at it again, remembering her here at his side.

"There's a few things I need to do back on Earth. Ends that need tying up. I need to see my Dad; my Nan."

She was always practical, considerate. "You'll need to do it straight away."

She sighs. "Yes, I thought so." Silence reigns for a while. He listens to her heart beating, counting down. "Doctor… There's something I need you to do for me."

"Anything," he says, and means it. Laws of time be damned, if she asks him to end the whole Universe now he will-

"Bring back my body," she says quietly. "I know what can happen… what technology can do. I won't be a corpse soldier or a cyber slave. Go back and find me. Bury me, or burn me. Whichever seems right to you. And there's a few people who might want a grave to visit. Give me a marker, yeah?"

Of course, she's never as selfish as he is. He nods. "I promise."

* * *

He drops her back in town. They go for coffee like they used to, long ago; like this isn't the end of everything.

"It's easier for me," she says, squeezing his fingers across the table, "I'm still going to see you again."

He shakes his head. "Every time I close my eyes," he says heavily, "you'll be with me."

She bites her lip, fighting back her own tears now. "Be good, Doctor. Do amazing things in my name. Not terrible."

"I will," he says, and he hopes he isn't lying.

Her 'phone trills. "That'll be Dad. I better go."

"Yes. Yes, of course." He feels dizzy when he stands, unable to move at first, until she embraces him.

"Don't be afraid," she whispers in his ear as they cling to one another, his own advice from so long ago given back to him. They are drawing stares, all a bit melodramatic for Costa coffee on a shopping Saturday.

"Clara Oswald," he says, for the very last time, "I'll be seeing you."

"Until then, Doctor."

He watches her out of the door as she goes to meet her fate, never looking back. Then he goes to find the TARDIS.

* * *

She isn't happy with the landing, readings scrawled across the console screens he has never seen before. He ignores her warning; he has a promise to keep. He hasn't created a paradox, the Universe will just have to endure any warping of time-space their last hurrah has caused. It's the least they deserved.

He opens the door and sees himself, standing frozen over her body. The past Doctor flexes his bloodstained fingers, and then steps forward into the flow of his future. He ignores a sudden mad desire to run and strike himself; to knock him out; relive the whole mad goodbye all over again with her, looping forever-

The other TARDIS is leaving. It is time.

He crosses to her. Eyes closed; she could be sleeping were it not for the wound in her chest, her unnatural stillness. Run clean through. Heart torn asunder.

He bends to pick her up-

And leaps backwards as fire blazes. "No," he gasps. He tried to pour regeneration energy into her the first time around, as her pulse stuttered and failed. It wouldn't take. How can this be happening now?

The golden glow does not engulf her; this is not true regeneration. Instead, the energy settles on her chest, filling the wound. It twinkles for a second longer, a dying ember, and then fades.

He crawls forward, reaching for her with shaking hands. "Clara?"

Her eyelids flutter. She is unconscious but unmistakably, miraculously, _impossibly_ alive. He pulls her into his arms and carries her back into the TARDIS.

His time machine groans and whirrs, taking them immediately into the Vortex with no command from him. He ignores her distress, carrying Clara to the med-bay. Machines click into life as he connects sensors, still disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes that she lives; she _breathes._ A puckered red scar over her heart, rather than a gaping hole.

 _How?_ He asks the computer, over and over, scheduling diagnostics, running scans. How does she live when he _felt_ the life flee her body?

She needs blood, the machines tell him: too little left of her own coursing in her veins. His can be made a match by the wizardry of the sick bay. He does not hesitate, takes a deep breath to steady his trembling and inserts a needle into his own arm. The double-beat of his hearts push red liquid from him to her, down a thin tube.

* * *

Clara opens her eyes. "So," she says, a little groggy. "Not dead." She turns her head to find him, sitting vigil at her bedside. "I did wonder if you might have been overreacting."

He shakes his head gravely. "You did die, Clara. It ripped your heart open."

"Then how am I still here?" His mouth twitches as he struggles to find the words. "Don't leave me in suspense, Doctor!"

"Gallifreyan cells," he says slowly, "They triggered a sort of mini-regeneration of the damage. Repaired enough for you to survive."

"From you?"

He puts his head on one side, considering the question. "Ultimately, I suppose, yes."

She frowns. "Doctor, what aren't you telling me?"

"Humans are quite unique, you know, when it comes to making more of you. Most earth mammals just allow a surface interface between maternal bloodstream and placenta, but _you_ … you go the full haemochorial works. Your offspring get direct access, so to speak, pumping you full of hormones. Raising your blood sugar, sending extra nutrients back to help themselves grow. And some cells go the other way of course. Chimeras, your mothers, all of them. Hybrids."

Her eyes widen as she translates this stream of babble. The machines monitoring her vital signs beep, alerting him to her rising pulse, respiration rate, blood pressure. "No," she breathes. "I'm not… I _can't_ be pregnant."

He bites his finger for a moment, considering his response. "Yes," he says eventually, "you are. The stress of your injury triggered the transferred cells in your bloodstream to enter a regenerative state. Not enough of them to change you. But enough to fix you."

"How?" she demands. " _How_ can this have happened?"

He blinks. "I assumed you were familiar with the mechanics-"

"I didn't mean! Of course I know how in _broad_ terms," she corrects. "But you're not _human_."

"I'm sorry," he says. "It's not unheard of. It's happened before. Not with me!" he adds hastily, before she gets the wrong end of the stick.

She lets out a shaky breath. "And I thought I was dying. No need for caution when you're on that kind of a countdown. Oh, God. When?"

"Eight weeks ago. Any later and the placenta wouldn't have developed enough for cell transfer." He swallows. "The beach, I think."

"I hadn't forgotten." The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of her mouth, freighted by the memory. Her pale fingers inch across the covers, find his worrying the hem of her blanket. She gives them a gentle squeeze. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know," he lies, "Whatever we want, I suppose." As if their decision hasn't been prophesised, millennia ago, on Gallifrey.

 _Is that what you ran from, Doctor? The coming of the hybrid?_ He should have listened to the call of the Universe, instead of allowing his own misery and fear to consume him. _And then she'd be dead_ , another part of him reminds. She lives because he saw her die. And he doesn't think there's a version of reality that exists where the Doctor can let Clara Oswald die without a fight. If there is, he's glad it isn't this one.

"What do you want?" she asks.

Very gently he lets go of her fingers and reaches across, his hand hovering millimetres over her stomach. She nods her permission, and he spreads his fingers across her lower abdomen with uttermost delicacy; closes his eyes. A thousand potential futures map on to his eyelids, charcoal sketches in shades of grey. One, outlined white hot. The weight of his child in his arms again; sleepless nights; unmitigated love. The Doctor and Clara Oswald, in the TARDIS.

"This," he says.

Prophecies be damned.


End file.
